The Red Files Page 4

  Obnoxious little…

  A film of billowy yellow caught her eye, and Lauren glanced to the door.

  Oh hell.

  It got closer.

  “Darlings! I thought that was you. I said to myself ‘Sahaya, if that doesn’t look like my good friends Lauren King and Mariella Slater, then I do not know who is eating at Ichiba Sushi.’”

  Good friends. Right.

  One of Hollywood’s most loose-lipped publicists air-kissed them both and pulled up a chair. Sarah Owens—pronounced Sahaya Onyx for reasons known only to her—apparently did not require an invitation to join a private lunch.

  “Mariella, dear, who are you wearing? I must have it!”

  “You really want us both swanning about in matching Vera Wangs, sweetie?”

  Vera Wang! Lauren mentally snapped her fingers. One of these days she’d actually remember a designer’s name.

  “Well there is that,” Sarah continued. “Now did I hear you both discussing the frosty one? Her Highness of the Daily Sentinel?”

  Lauren raised her eyebrows as the skeletally thin creature arranged herself artfully in the chair for what appeared to be a prolonged gossip session. And was the woman a damn lip-reader? It would explain how she knew so much of what was going on around town.

  “Did you know,” Sarah began, “that my boss still refuses to have her name spoken within his earshot. He never forgave her for the series on kickbacks and lobbyists in Washington where she named him the worst offender. The story included this nasty little artwork with his face in the center of a bullseye.”

  “Well to be fair,” Mariella interjected drolly, “he was the worst offender. His bribery expense account was higher than the GDP. Isn’t that why he moved to LA—he’d already bought out all of DC and needed fresh killing fields?”

  “Pffft, but he didn’t need everyone knowing that. Especially those in his new hunting grounds. He still hates Ayers with a passion.”

  Sarah’s eyes swung to Lauren. “She’s always been an icicle, you know. Now she’s just got a good reason to be bitter. Washington correspondent to gossip girl in one glorious, bloody swan dive.”

  She lowered her voice and added conspiratorially, “I heard they keep a police-tape body outline in her old office in Washington to remind everyone how big the splat can be when you screw up that badly. Like a warning to the next generation.”

  Lauren laughed. “Police tape?”

  “Unlikely,” Mariella said, amused, eyes lighting up as her sushi was placed before her. She reached for her fork as Lauren’s sizzling fried fish was set down, too.

  “Bodies get buried so fast in DC there’s no time for shrines—even for those spectacularly vanquished like Ayers,” Mariella continued and waved her fork at Sarah. “And as if she’d tolerate that. She’d have flown back to Washington and shriveled all their gonads with one icy glare.”

  She speared some sushi with her fork and jabbed the air in front of her. “I know it’s not obvious looking at her now, but I remember when she was the most ferocious, ambitious journalist that town had seen in years. She was so completely fearless. She wrote this one column on entrenched sexism in Washington that blew the tops off everyone’s heads. It was perfect. I have it framed on my wall. Of course, that went down about as well as you’d expect.”

  “So you don’t think it’s true about the shrine thing?” Sarah’s face dropped. “How disappointing. And my source seemed so sure. What about you? You work with her.” She turned to Lauren.

  Lauren shook her head. “How would I know what goes on in Washington?” she asked. “Besides, despite all the rumors about her, I’ve only ever known Ayers as a gossip columnist, and she’s a pretty wimpy one at that.”

  Mariella shot her an askance look. “Don’t ever let her hear you call her wimpy.”

  “Yeah, she’s so terrifying in her taffeta and Jimmy Choos. What’s she gonna do? Irritate me to death with her terrifying parking?”

  Lauren took a hearty bite of fried shrimp and ignored the shocked look on Sarah’s face. Lauren almost snickered. Probably more fat and carbs on her plate than the woman had seen in a year.

  “Ah, the youth of today,” Mariella sighed and examined her forkful of sushi. “Sticking their heads into dragon’s mouths.” She bit in and slowly chewed.

  Sarah shook her head. “Well, it’s a shame that rumor isn’t true. I rather liked the visual. Alright then, how about this bit of goss, hot off the presses—the relatively new publisher of a certain newspaper,” she glanced at Lauren pointedly, “who only got the top job when his respected publisher father retired, was seen leaving a hotel with a trashy blonde on his arm who was not his high-profile movie star girlfriend...”

  Lauren sighed inwardly. The proclivities of the Boy King Paul Harrington Jr. were becoming more obnoxious. If Frank’s grumbling was anything to go by, the 30-year-old was an entitled ass who thought his background in marketing made him some sort of gifted entrepreneur. He was anything but a gifted human being though.

  She’d heard around the office that, after Ayers’s infamous career crash, she’d been recalled to LA by Harrington Jr., who’d just replaced his father as publisher. He then not only closed the paper’s Washington bureau as “a waste of time and money,” but insisted the political writer see out the rest of her contract as a celebrity gossip writer.

  That now infamous shafting by the Boy King wasn’t the only one Ayers had endured. Water-cooler gossip had it that her phone stopped ringing overnight as her former contacts and well-placed friends were afraid of catching political typhoid by association.

  The thing Lauren didn’t get was the infamous ball-breaker hadn’t even fought back. She’d had the dream job—a respected bureau chief in Washington, for god’s sake—and was exactly where Lauren would give her eye teeth to be. But instead of defending herself, mounting a counterattack and fighting for her career and her reputation, she had simply rolled over into a prickly ball and taken it.

  Now she sat at the Daily Sentinel’s worst desk beside the office kitchen in her elegant Armani suits, pushing out biting columns about celebrities and counting down the days until her contract expired.

  It was cowardice, weakness, or something worse. Lauren couldn’t decide. She held her own counsel as Mariella and Sarah enthusiastically debated the merits of various rumors for a while until the gossipy interloper turned back to Lauren.

  “Does she ever talk about it,” Sarah asked in a hushed tone. “Ayers—her inglorious dumping from bureau chief?”

  “A good question,” Mariella said. “I wouldn’t mind knowing the answer myself.”

  “Doesn’t say a word,” Lauren told the pair who’d leaned forward eagerly. “Reams out anyone who gets too nosy. But she pretty much keeps to herself, goes about her business, ignores us mere mortals in general, and annoys me in particular.”

  “Oh do tell,” Sarah asked, scrunching up a napkin in excitement. “Whatever does the Caustic Queen do to you?”

  “Um, hello, the Estella video?” Lauren grimaced. “We’re on the same damned paper. She not only wrote it up but made sure there was humiliating footage!”

  “Oh that was divine!” Sarah burst into peals of high-pitched laughter, drawing eyes from around the room. “Estella is one of my clients, and she is still hissing about it. Her dress was one of a kind, and apparently the punch stain was as stubborn as mule to get out. Oh and she wants to know if you really do have goats?”

  Mariella joined in the laughter as Lauren glared with murderous intent.

  “Hilarious.” Lauren shot them a look.

  “If I know you, sweetie,” Mariella said, interrupting her darkening mood, “you won’t let her get away with that for long. Although, as your friend who values your good health, I strongly recommend that you do.”

  Lauren leaned back in her chair. “Duly noted and ignored, Mari. But yeah, as it happens I have a few ideas. Can’t say too much right now but at the next big gala...”

  Lauren hummed happ
ily to herself at the thought but didn’t finish out loud.

  “Sweetie, I love you dearly, but if you exact revenge at one of my events, I will kill you. Actually, scratch that—at least get me good free press,” Mariella amended. “And no arrests. It’s always a bad night when the acronym men in dark suits rush about waving their guns.”

  “Acronym men?”

  “Oh you know—FBI, CIA, DEA. DKNY. Take your pick.”

  “Right. No guns in any dastardly schemes. Check.”

  “That way there be dragons,” Mariella muttered.

  “So fearless,” Sarah said in awe. She leaned across the table and patted Lauren’s hand sympathetically. “Don’t worry—I will write you a dazzling obituary and send it to all the national wires when she tires of playing with you and disposes of your body.”

  Lauren and Mariella burst into laughter.

  “Darlings,” Sarah pouted. “I was being completely serious!”

  CHAPTER 3

  There’s Something About Cherry

  May 11

  Lauren’s gaze drifted around the ballroom elaborately done up in the corporate colors of blue and yellow at SmartPay USA’s Californian launch. Ostentatious wasn’t even the half of it, but that was what happened when deep political pockets met Hollywood’s superficial grandiosity. Almost a thousand Hollywood stars and heavyweights in the industry moved like a glittering snake around the VIP event at the Beverly Hills Regent’s enormous five-star ballroom.

  Lauren scanned the political throng gathered near the stage, networking over champagnes. The mayor of Los Angeles was supposed to be here, too, but apparently some sensational parking officer corruption scandal had laid him low. There was already talk of Doug Daley winning an award for that hot exclusive.

  Lauren pursed her lips.

  She pushed him from her mind and scoured the room for more A-listers to interview. Mariella had truly outdone herself. It looked like all of Hollywood had emptied out to be here.

  Across the room, California’s governor, Democrat Peter Day, was preparing to take to the stage with Nevada’s governor, Republican Richard Freeman, so they could shake hands across the political divide, promise jobs to their constituency, and perform in an excruciatingly cheesy photo op.

  Governor Freeman was practically vibrating with delight. He was probably already pencilling this into his next election speech, as though he had somehow personally come up with the new tech instead of just peddling it interstate.

  “Ugh,” came a dramatic groan beside her. “Tell me again why I agreed to come to this thing?”

  Lauren fondly eyed her dashing date. “Free booze?” she suggested to Joshua. “Cute catering staff? The waiter with those lime duck meatballs has been making eyes at you all night.”

  “Mmm,” he said, faintly mollified as he looked about for the meatball purveyor. “Why are they even doing plus ones at this thing? Isn’t it a bit weird that you get to bring a date to a business launch?”

  “Mariella’s idea,” Lauren said, snagging a passing pastry creation. “She wanted to add ‘volume to the floor.’ I think that translates to ‘the more the merrier’ in PR speak. And she’s not wrong. She won’t even have to fudge the attendance numbers later.”

  As if on cue, Mariella breezed up in a swirl of black silk with several nervous acolytes pulled along in her wake.

  “Sweetie, thanks for coming.” Mariella air-kissed Lauren. “Joshua, lovely as always. Thanks for that adorable handbag you sent me last week. I do like it, but then you know I go weak at the knees for lilac and faux crocodile. I will flash it all over Fashion Week for you.”

  She air-kissed him, too, then took stock of his outfit. He preened and shifted to give her his best angle.

  “Goodness, dear boy, if I was twenty years younger, I’d be tempted to eat you right up. Don’t you look gorgeous!”

  Joshua grinned.

  Mariella gave them both waves, promised to chat later, and disappeared with her trail of assistants to handle the governors and their phalanxes.

  “Now I remember why I like you,” Joshua said, reaching for a glass of champagne. “Your impeccable taste in friends.”

  Lauren nodded as she watched the schmoozing. “Uh huh. You say that every time.”

  They fell silent and listened to the band rotate through timeless classics—code for older than their parents—while Lauren wondered when Ayers would arrive. She was curious to know whether her best-laid plans would yield results.

  “Hey,” Joshua said suddenly. “When did orange go out of style?”

  “Huh?” She glanced around. “When was it ever in style?”

  “I meant fake tans,” he said. “I’ve seen dozens of real tans tonight—and, wait for it, real boobs. It’s like the pod people have invaded LA.”

  “Real boobs? That’ll be the day.” Lauren immediately scanned the crowd more closely. Just then a socialite wandered by who had been in the news for an especially tawdry scandal—which was saying something in this town. There was a particular look in her eye that made Lauren reach for her notebook. She’d lay good money that the woman was dying to cough up the goods.

  “One sec,” Lauren told Joshua. “I’ll leave you to the pod people. Duty calls.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after a stream of drivel about how the socialite would “always love” her “dear, dear friend,” a serial-cheating B-lister, she returned to Joshua’s side deflated that the confessions were duller than a statistician’s in-tray.

  That’s when she felt a prickle slide up her spine and a shift in the air. She turned to the door.

  Catherine Ayers. She dominated the room in emerald green tonight, floating through the throngs in a satin dress that plunged in all the right places but stopped just before any arrests could be made. Her seductive décolletage was set off by a whisper-thin silver necklace studded with tiny diamonds and emeralds that matched her tear-drop earrings. Her rich, shoulder-length, auburn hair shined under the warm lights.

  Her accusing gaze suddenly locked onto Lauren’s. After a few weighty seconds, it dismissed her coldly, and drifted elsewhere.

  “My my,” Joshua drawled in her ear. “Doesn’t she make an entrance? You sure she’s an arch villainess? Because even I’d tap that.”

  “Nuh-uh, Josh, definitely not recommended by the surgeon general. She’d chew you up and spit you out before you got past the introductions,” Lauren said. “Men’s bits shrivel and crawl up in their bellies when she’s around, trust me.”

  “Well then who is that brave and juicy piece of man-fluff on her arm tonight?”

  Lauren followed his gaze to an exceedingly handsome young man flashing a toothy, perfect grin at the crowd. Ayers’s fingers were curled around his lower bicep, and her body language suggested a relaxed level of familiarity.

  Since when was Ayers dating? Although given how notoriously private she was, for all she knew this was Caustic Queen’s husband.

  Poor bastard.

  She studied his face again and then frowned.

  “How old is he?” she muttered. “Can’t she do better than raiding the local high school prom?”

  “Miaow, honey, sheath those claws, because I think he’s adorable. Who is he anyway?”

  Lauren snuck a longer look at the tanned masculine face—all jaw, really—and realized she’d seen him before. Quite a few times in the past six months in fact, always at the same events Ayers had been at. She’d just never connected that they were together.

  “He looks like a male model.” Joshua sighed. “Maybe he does underwear? I’ve always wanted to date an underwear model.”

  “You’re drooling,” Lauren grumbled. “And over someone who has already proven he has really lousy taste in dates.”

  Suddenly a young woman scampered up to Ayers, uttered a brief statement out of earshot, and then waited with wide, fearful eyes. Ayers, face like thunder, said something sharply, and the girl clopped away again.

  Ayers’s gaze swung darkly back to Lauren. She smirk
ed, guessing exactly what had just transpired.

  “Care to share?” Joshua asked. “Have you been stewing up schemes again?”

  “Just a little one,” Lauren admitted with a grin. “Tiny bit of payback for the Estella video.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “It was harmless fun,” Lauren said and grinned. “After all, I did promise Mari no arrests at her event.”

  “Oh spill,” Joshua said, but his gaze still lingered on Ayers’s date.

  “Will you stop panting over the boy candy for five seconds?” Lauren sighed and nudged him in the ribs. “You look like a lion on the Serengeti with some poor, straight zebra in your sights.”

  “Straight? Please. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that gorgeous zebra’s stripes are at least a little bi-curvy.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. Josh always was an optimist. Another movement caught her attention.

  A young man was headed toward Ayers, but he seemed to lack the courage of his predecessor. He inched forward, and Lauren studied his tortoise-like approach with fascination.

  “Do you think she’ll eviscerate this one on the spot? String his innards up for all to see?” Joshua whispered, intrigued, as he, too, watched the creeping prey.

  “Wouldn’t put it past her. She might not even bother to spit out the skin and bones.” She grabbed his arm. “Let’s find out.”

  They edged to just within earshot.

  When the young man reached Ayers’s side, he sucked in a deep breath, stood ramrod straight, and reeled off who had won the last three Oscars for art direction. Then he swallowed and looked up at her expectantly.

  Ayers stared at him. “Are you an imbecile?”

  He blinked at her then shook his head vigorously.

  “Excellent. So you should be able to find the exit unassisted then.”

  Joshua clutched a hand over his heart and sighed. “She’s like the perfect gay man with really great boobs.”

  “Oh stop it,” Lauren slapped his arm. “She’s evil, remember.”

  Ayers’s head snapped around, and she pinned Lauren with another glare. It was even frostier than the last, and Lauren almost felt the icicles forming in her veins. In four long strides, she was right up inside Lauren’s space.